Clairvoyant
by AnnaJamila
Summary: Severus Snape has escaped to the wilds of the Canadian countryside. In a new country, a new school, and a new name can he find happiness? Or, being Severus, will he muck it all up with angst?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N Unfortunately I do not own Severus Snape, or anything or anyone that has ever appeared in any of the Harry Potter books. Also I have a beta now and things have been tweeked- you may want to skim it over again so you don't miss the changes.**

Snape set down his trunk, surveying the clean modern lines of his new office. It was a world away from the dusty, mouldy stones of Hogwarts- both literally and figuratively- and for a man of his self composure, he was oddly put out. To his right was a great wall of glass looking out over a sparkling lake hemmed in by dark forest. He waved a hand and the glass disappeared. The window was just an illusion, he knew that, but he couldn't shake off the feeling of exposure. Years of living in the dark with its seeming safety had made him wary of light.

He cleared his throat and a hand went to his neck, swathed like the rest of him in immaculate black. Anyone who knew him would recognize him instantly; the only visible difference was the addition of a high black cravat and that he appeared to be much younger. When the Dark Lord died his dark mark had faded, taking with it the poison it had slowly seeped into his blood.

For once Severus actually looked his age. Given a less severe attire he would have looked several years younger. He went to his desk and rested his weary head in his hands. It was the fall after the great battle and, after staging his death and transfiguring the body of a death eater to resemble his own, he'd fled to Canada to do the only thing he really knew how: teach.

He wasn't in need of money- careful management and frugal living had seen to that, but he had to do something with his time. He'd realized that he didn't much relish the thought of becoming a hermit, seeing no one and spending the rest of his days alone. He liked people- well, intelligent ones, for that matter, who weren't overly communicative- and he liked teaching. He'd taken some pains to conceal the fact that he was still alive, but after he'd discovered that his name was cleared of all charges he wasn't too concerned with anonymity. To avoid the praise and sheepish gratitude of the masses, however, he'd continued to go through the motions.

He was considering starting a draught of sleeping potion for that evening when the door to the store-room opened. A young woman garbed in an icy blue gown appeared. She dropped a graceful curtsey and looked at him expectantly.

He blinked for a few seconds before recovering enough presence of mind to demand in a passable impression of his former voice, "Yes?"

The girl's delicate white fingers offered him a slip of paper that read: "My name is Claire Dowlatshahi. I am the Herbological Sciences aide and will be working with you."

"I take it you speak French?"

She gave him what he took to be a confused look. Severus essayed into a flawless Gaelic tirade, explaining with easy disdain that he never took student helpers and that she could take herself off and think no more about it. She shook her head and pointed to the paper.

"I'm not an ordinary student. I was given this position because the professor you replace realized that teaching me along side other students was pointless. I helped her by teaching the lower classes, grading assignments and general maintenance of supplies but the main reason I became her aide was for private tutelage. I am exceptional with potions."

He looked at her with a scowl after reading this but instead of meeting a look of insufferable self-satisfaction, he saw only a kind of quiet dignity. She wasn't bragging, merely stating- at least what she and her former professor had deemed- the truth.

"Mademoiselle, I am sure that you are.. adequate.. with brewing some potions, but rest assured that the easy pace that has here to fore characterized this institution's 'Herbological Sciences' program is no more. You will undoubtedly be challenged by the new curriculum."

'Whether you rise to the challenge remains to be determined,' he added to himself. He glanced at the paper, used to the routine.

"I'm not trying to be perverse, but please keep me on. Potions are my life."

He snorted and crumpled the note in his fist.

"I trust you can see your way out?"

Glancing at the paper, she wet her lips and spoke. Her words were slow and deliberate.

"Don't make me go. Give me a month, then decide."

Her breath came fast and he could see the effort it took to speak. He looked at her, testing her. If she showed even a trace of fear or intimidation he would be done with the whole thing. Her black eyes met his levelly.

'They're like the night sky,' he thought absently, 'Dark and yet so full of light . . . the deuce did that come from?'

"One week."

She breathed in relief and bobbed another curtsey.

"Mademoiselle? In future if you wish to communicate you shall have to speak. I will not waste my time with notes."

She nodded. A small charm on her circlet twitched and caught the light as she moved. He was still staring absent mindedly when the door shut silently behind her.

'I've gone soft,' he thought to himself.

He smoothed the paper saw the words "Thank you." Annoyed that he'd been so easily manipulated he almost resolved to call her back and turn her away. After a moment's reflection he shrugged inwardly. What was the point? He was new here and could at least utilize an assistant until he grew used to the school. That the girl was nearly mute was an unexpected stroke of luck. And she wasn't bad looking, if you went for exotics.

'Exotics?' Claire thought to herself, listening. 'How am I exotic?' Whatever he thought of her looks, the man was an imposter. She'd known instantly that "Serum Prince" was an alias, though she wouldn't reveal that he sought to hide his identity. She'd quite liked the bit about her eyes. Her lips curved into a small, mischievous smile. This year could prove enjoyable.

Several hours later, when Severus had just about finished with his lesson plan, he arose, about to order tea. Yet at that moment, Claire set down a cup with a wedge of lemon. He blinked in surprise then thanked her, watching her over the rim of the cup as he took a sip.

"How is it that you are here over the summer holiday?" he asked carelessly, setting the warm cup on the table.

She looked at him with silent question.

"Speak. You are not mute and the more you get in habit of talking the sooner you shall overcome the aversion."

She drew a resigned breath.

"I am a ward. I take my vacations here."

"I take it that room is yours?"

He had gestured to a tiny bedroom adjoining the store-room. She nodded.

"You shall have to find accommodation elsewhere. I understand that the former professor was a woman, and thus the arrangement was unobjectionable, but as that is no longer the circumstance..."

"I have already asked... in reference to the change in circumstance. Headmistress saw no reason for me to go."

It was a long speech for her, and he let her recover before asking, "You don't want to board with people your own age?"

Her smile was sardonic. It said, 'What on earth would I have in common with them?' She inclined her head, and then asked with her eyes if that was all. He nodded and shuffled his papers. When she turned his eyes, completely of their own accord, sought out the smooth expanse of her white arms. He grimaced took another sip of tea. Exactly the way he liked it. Now openly scowling he pushed the cup away and furiously scribbled on a sheet of parchment.

With the note in hand, he followed her into the large closet. Tiny drawers lined the walls, each with a small label affixed to the front. The letters were identical to the ones on the note she'd given him on their first encounter. Above him were racks of herbs in various stages of drying and a great wooden table filled the middle of the room.

She was working with the mortar and pestle, grinding something into a fine powder. She stopped her work and looked up, her face flushed from wielding the heavy stone. She held up a finger and flicked her long ebony hair over her shoulder, continuing to grind. After some minutes of easy silence she waved a hand and the powder neatly poured itself into its drawer.

"You do not make use of a wand?"

She shrugged, wiping her palms on her apron.

"Sometimes."

A cat mewed and leapt from the window seat to the table, sitting in front of her expectantly. She caught him up and scratched under his chin.

"You say you're advanced? Here is a list of potions. You've until the end of the week to complete them."

She glanced at it and suppressed a smile. He'd intended to make it too challenging for her to perform, and she would have to pay careful attention to a few on the list, but she'd mastered even the most difficult by fourth year.

Late that night, into the small hours of the morning, she was tending the final brew. Despite himself, Severus was impressed. Shortcuts and improvements he had discovered as a lad seemed well-known to her, and in addition there were one or two techniques he'd never thought to try. No doubt in three days time when this potion was complete it would be flawless.

He'd fully expected the list to outlast the week, intended it even, but she'd taken out several cauldrons at once and made them all together, managing her time well by inserting shorter, more complex recipes into the down time of a longer brew. Eyes shining, she looked up at him, fairly begging for his approbation. He saw himself in her, the burning desire for someone, anyone, to recognize her talent. He indulged her begrudgingly.

"Adequate."

Despite the circles under her eyes, her smiling face was supremely lovely. He found that he couldn't look away from her lips. Blasted jet lag. He turned and strode from the room. Claire listened with her mind as he began to decipher a rather long and arduous passage in a medieval herbal. Otherwise his mind was completely blank.

He was very skilled at that. She resisted the urge to probe, knowing that he would feel her. Around the edges of thought she could feel a terrible darkness, pain and guilt eating at him. Overall was an intense fatigue, almost engulfing him. Unable to restrain herself she gently drew a bit away. She felt exhaustion down to her very bones. Curling up in the window seat with the cat she dimmed the lights and watched the rain fall in slanting grey lines. This wasn't really a window, so she couldn't hear it, but her mind supplied echoes of the sound. Soon she was fast asleep.

Light had begun to tint the horizon when she woke. Her nostrils flared as she sniffed the air, checking on the roiling mass inside the cauldron. Everything was going on as it should. She stretched; stiff and cold from sleeping on the window ledge, then realized she was famished. A few seconds work produced two cups of tea and a tin of ginger biscuits (one of the drawers were designated for the times when she either forgot to go to the great hall to eat or was too busy with a potion) and went out in search of her teacher. He was awake and sitting at his desk. He nodded politely and took the cup she offered.

"Shall we gather... ingredients?"

"What do we need?"

"I have an inventory."

She handed it to him and he read, in her neat, easy cursive, how much the storeroom had of what. Grasping a quill he noted with his own spidery script what he required. She glanced at it and nodded.

"Half a moment."

He'd finished the tea and started on his second biscuit when she reappeared. Gone was the Byronic dress with its silver "ceinture de lys"; in its place was a belted tunic over leggings. A braid of black hair wrapped around her head to terminate in a large knot at the nape of her neck. He realized that he was staring. He cleared his throat and stood.

"Lead the way, mademoiselle."

They walked in companionable silence out of the huge château to the edge of an evergreen forest.

"Would you mind if we don't.. apparate? I tend to walk. Sometimes you find things you didn't know you wanted."

The last part of her statement struck him. He was glad they made the trip in silence. They had gone about a mile when a little orange head popped out of her messenger bag, sniffed a bit and then retreated.

"You brought the cat?"

"Yes. Grince comes along everywhere."

"Grince?"

"The English is "squeaky"."

His lip quirked.

"Creative."

After a bit they made it to a shaded pool around which grew several of the herbs on the list. Suddenly a gigantic white centaur was standing beside them.

"Allo Muraco."

"Allo Claire, ma cher. Who is he?" he added disdainfully. Severus, used to the erratic and often violent outbursts of European centaurs, had put himself between the girl and the huge beast.

"This is.. my teacher."

Severus inclined his head and provided a name, "Professor Prince."

The beast eyed him for a bit before giving Claire an odd look and repeating her.

"Your teacher? What happened to Mme Arran?"

"She took with child."

"Oh. Why are you alone with him?"

Claire gave him a puzzled look.

"We came to gather herbs. And I'm not alone, I have Grince."

Muraco didn't laugh. He gave Severus a dark look and rested a possessive hand on Claire's shoulder.

"Don't go places with him by yourself."

"I'm his assistant. We're alone most of the day."

"... And what do you do with him, _alone most of the day_?"

She almost choked before flushing with anger.

"Muraco p-puh-lease!"

Her blush increased and she shoved her handful of herbs into the bag.

"Can we go?" she muttered to the ground.

"Gladly." Severus gave the angry creature a last look then wrapped Claire in his arms and apparated.

Shortly, they appeared on a clearing just outside of the school and wasted no time walking back. Surprisingly, it was Severus who broke the silence.

"Excuse me. I didn't mean to cause a problem between you and your..?"

She scuffed a toe in the dirt and shrugged.

"It's unwise to become entangled with a centaur. They have vicious tempers when it comes to their women."

"I'm not his w-woman."

Her face clenched and tears gathered in her eyes. So that was it. She stuttered.

"You may as well compose yourself. You can't help it."

"I suh-hound like an idiot!"

Humiliated as she was, anything he said would just make it worse. He held the door for her in silence and led her into the great hall where the teachers were gathering to eat.

"Have some breakfast."

"I'm n-not huh-huh-huh-" she abandoned the effort with a scowl.

Ignoring the attempt at refusal he made a plate and set it in front of her with a decided clack.

"Eat."

After taking a moment to shoot him a baleful look, she tucked in. She really was hungry. She hadn't eaten a meal since breakfast the day before. Severus, also hungry, ate with relish. He was in an excellent mood. He'd thought the silly girl had formed a "liaison dangereuse" with the beast and was immensely relieved to find that she hadn't. Later that relief would bother him, but for now he occupied himself with enjoying her dignified outrage.

"All of the toast, please."

She'd been about to push away her plate but, giving him a sullen look, snatched the last piece of bread and bit a huge chunk out of it before tossing it back down. She raised her eyebrows sarcastically. 'Satisfied?' He snorted and took a swig of coffee.

Yes, as a matter of fact he was.


	2. Chapter 2

"What was all that about?"

She kept her eyes on her book.

"All what about?"

Severus looked at her, brow raised. She sighed and shut the novel.

"Can I write it?"

Calm, she had the stuttering under control, but her speech was still more slow and cautious than usual.

"No."

She gave him an annoyed glance and pursed her lips.

"The more in habit of speaking you are the easier it will become. How do you know the centaur?"

"I met him as a second year. Some students had chased me into the woods; he came and made them leave off."

"And you've continued the friendship?"

She nodded.

"I don't get on well with other students."

"Why?"

She didn't answer. Severus clasped his hands behind his back and slowly paced the room.

"It's not uncommon for children to ostracize others of superior talent. I imagine the stammering is a long-standing issue? That couldn't have helped."

He noted the look of aversion on her face. So there was another reason.. Could it be the fact that she was an orphan? Or something about how she became one?

"Were you ostracized?"

He halted, and his face blanched of all colour. She looked at him mildly, waiting for an answer.

"To an extent. You've never sought counselling for speech impairment?"

"Last summer. They tried several charms and gave me coping mechanisms. It helped, some."

"Why only so recently?"

"That was the first time anyone heard me talk."

"Ah."

He was silent for a moment, debating his next question. She spared him from having to ask.

"I don't remember my mother and father. I have a photograph."

She pulled a small circular frame from inside her tunic and lifting its bedraggled ribbon from around her neck handed it to him. It was warm from her skin. Struggling to compose himself he examined the two people pictured.

One was a man, handsome and young, with a dark Arab complexion. He wore a suit and laughed nervously, touching a hand to his moustache. Every so often he darted a glance to his companion and a smile warmed his face. She was a lovely woman in a light blue dress, curly black hair piled on top of her head to spill over her white shoulders.

She laughed, leaning into him, her attention absorbed by something just out of the shot. Both figures faced to the left.

"My mother was a French Canadian and my father was from Iran."

She touched a single fingertip to the frame, raw ache filling her voice.

"Sometimes I hold that p-picture and stare at it for hours. I still hope that if I wait long enough they'll look at me."

Before he could think better of it, he spoke.

"It's better this way. It can drive you mad, looking into their eyes, knowing they don't see."

She gazed at him in surprise, then nodded gravely.

"Thank you for that."

She excused herself to check on the potion brewing away in the store-room. When she returned he was nowhere to be found.

Eventually he returned, saying nothing about his absence. That night when she went to bed, the cat was playing with a small package on her pillow. 'Quoi s'agit-il, mon petit chou chou?' Picking him up, she freed the parcel from his teeth. She pulled open the seal with a finger and a coil of thin velvet ribbon fell to the floor at her feet. It was the exact shade of blue of her mother's dress.


	3. Chapter 3

The week went by quickly. Snape made no mention as to whether she would continue as his assistant, and after some thought Claire decided not to press. Better to wait until he was up to his eyebrows in assignments that needed grading, if she brought it up at all.

For now she would focus on the welcoming banquet. She dressed with rather more care then the occasion usually prompted. She wore her most expensive dress robes, lovely embroidered silk in amber and gold on a cream field. She'd bought them to wear to Professor Lambert's (now Mme Arran)'s wedding.

That morning she'd altered them to fit (said wedding having transpired two years ago) and though she'd overshot the hem a bit, they looked surprisingly well for a self done job. She examined herself in the mirror and, having decided that she wasn't a complete troll, made her grand entrance into their shared apartments. Which were empty.

"I suppose that's just as well," she said to Grince. He opened one eye, looking, as much as a cat can look, unconvinced.

"Je ne suis p-pas un imbécile," she muttered.

Gathering the heavy silk into her hands she made her way to the Great Hall. She had been eating her meals on the teacher's daïs but now she would have to sit at the seventh years' table. She'd taken care to arrive long before her classmates- experience had taught her it was best to get there first. It saved the others the trouble of getting up when she joined them at table.

From the corner of her eye she saw Severus slip into his seat. Everything the man did was done stealthily. It put her in mind her of a cat- well, not a cat. Her lips twitched as she imagined scratching his belly and offering him a dish of minced liver in cream. A panther. Yes, that was a bit more like it.

He ignored her when she tried to catch his eye. Since the 'question and answer session' he'd left her to her own devices. He was courteous to a fault, but distant. She'd arranged the new ribbon so that it was visible in the neckline of her dress, but she wasn't sure if he'd noticed. He kept his thoughts marvellously blank around her; so blank that she wondered if he'd been warned about her powers. They certainly weren't any secret. The entire school knew that she was an empath. He didn't seem the sort to engage in idle gossip, though, and he wouldn't have had a problem confronting her about it.

The great doors to the hall swung open, letting in the damp smell of woods in early autumn. She braced herself. In reality the new additions filed in silently, going to the table of their respective year and then waiting for announcements. Besides a few whispered voices it was quiet. But to Claire the hall that had before contained only the composed thoughts of a dozen odd teachers was filled with a cacophony of voices.

Some spoke in French, some English and one or two in foreign languages. A handful of thoughts registered as insults to her. In all fourteen students had had relationships or friendships broken off during the summer, two had close family members die, one girl over at the fifth years' table had fresh burns and cuts hidden under her sleeves, and a sixth year was pregnant. Most of them were convinced that they led the dullest, most miserable lives in North America. All were convinced that Claire was quite the odd bird.

Normally these reflections would amuse her but it was too much to take in at once. She rested her head in her hands, a monstrous headache trying to be born. She wanted to leave badly; the room was spinning and she felt the need to retch. Eating was beyond impossible. When the Headmistress stood to speak about half the voices quieted, listening. She pressed the back of a shaking hand to her mouth and eyed the door. How soon could she make her escape?

'What the devil has gotten into her?'

She looked up to see Snape eyeing her. Behind his blank expression she almost thought she read concern. She smiled weakly and fainted.

The slate floor brought her back around with a crack. The hall was silent for a moment and then the maelström of voices from before redoubled. 'At least now I can leave,' she mused, feeling sticky warmth spread across the back of her head. In an instant the nurse was beside her, waiting for her to gain her feet with a resigned expression. Madame Blanche was an old friend- pressing a hand to the wound Claire wondered dimly how many times she'd been sent to her for patching up.

"Come along, child."

The nurse's hand hovered behind her back but didn't touch her as she led her from the room, and she made no move to steady her when Claire stumbled on the hem of her long dress robes. Snape's brow furrowed imperceptibly. This was the first sign he'd seen of a staff member having an aversion to her. He noticed that several students gave her disdainful looks as she left the hall, but his colleges had never treated her with anything but warmth. Including the nurse.

He really must figure out what the deuce was going on.


	4. Chapter 4

Released from the infirmary Claire made her way back to the basement and the potions office therein. Every so often she put her hand to the wall and paused, letting a group of students or fit of dizziness pass. Often the two came together. But, diffused as they were over the entire school, she could better handle the many voices. By tomorrow morning she should be enough used to it to meet them all en mass at breakfast.

It hadn't always been this way. There was a time when the annual Welcoming Feast, while overwhelming, had been exhilarating, too.

Claire had never been what you could call an outgoing child but she'd had friends. Shy, quiet and intelligent she was kind and got on well with others.

Growing up she'd been petted by her guardian, an elderly witch nearing her two-hundredth year. The trust fund her parents had left her kept her in comfort and on the whole she was not unhappy. In odd moments she did long for her mother and father, but in a resigned way. She'd been excited to start school, and her first year had been wonderful. True, she seemed much more mature than the other students, and occasionally she'd make a comment that brought on a strange look, but nothing serious. She accepted that she was a little different from her contemporaries. It didn't seem to bother them so why should it concern her?

It wasn't until her second year that she found out just how different. Ironically the trait that had always made her invaluable to her friends- namely that she knew with unswerving accuracy just what her companions wanted to do, say or hear at any given moment- was the same one that sealed her fate as an outcast.

Early in the first quarter she'd stood with the other twelve-year olds arranged around a large table in the greenhouse. The professor had been explaining the proper way to repot baby mandrakes. Nothing out of the ordinary here; millions of wizarding students around the world were learning or had learned this information in a similar lesson. Donning their ear muffs they prepared to uproot the eery plants. As they wrenched them from the soil ear-splitting shrieks filled the room. This was unpleasant but not unexpected. What was unexpected was the abrupt exit of a small blonde girl, who fled from the greenhouse to make it fifty metres before vomiting and then fainting. The professor sent a student to fetch a slightly younger Mme Blanche and hastily showed them how to repot the squirming vegetation. The last cry silenced she followed them to the infirmary, dismissing class early.

Of course no one was in a hurry to leave. They whispered and conjectured among themselves, every single mind burning to know what had happened.

"Where her muffs crooked?"

"Was she sick?"

Claire marveled that no one around her knew what was the matter. She'd thought it loud and clear before she left. Not for the first time she wondered at everyone elses' denseness, but, polite to a fault, was gentle when she spoke.

"It's simple."

Every eye turned to her; they knew that when Claire spoke it would undoubtably be something interesting.

"The scream reminded her of it."

She hinted at the event, too respectful of the poor girl to want to say it out loud. Surely they could make the connection without further help. But they still didn't get it. She'd have to spell it out for them.

"You know... when her father... killed her mother."

There was silence and then a multitude of voices both inside and out.

"Where did you hear that?"

"What a nasty rumor to start!"

'She should be ashamed, letting out such a secret!'

She turned from face to face, stunned. They truly hadn't known about it.

Two summers ago Lisette had hidden under the kitchen sink while her father crazed with liquor and jealousy beat her poor mother to death with a crowbar before killing himself. She'd been forced to listen to the terrible screams, too terrified and powerless to do anything. Many hours the ministry police had found her still under the sink. At the station they gave her a teddy bear. In her nightmares it came to life, chasing her, demanding to know why she'd sat there and let her mother die.

"But.. she dreams about it all the time. Didn't you know?"

The other children ignored that part, thinking that Lisette had just told her the secret and Claire had let it slip. The whole thing would have blown over had not Claire tried to apologize. She'd found Lisette in the rose garden by herself. She let her get through the whole explanation, her eyes becoming wider and wider with every word, until, after a long silence, she stood and slapped her, then spit on the ground before her feet.

"Phénomène!"

Before long the news circulated the school that Claire had learned Lisette's secrets by listening to her thoughts and dreams, and then the idea presented itself that if she had been listening to _Lisette_, could she be listening to them all? Students who had once been her friends were now uncomfortable around her; they asked why she had never told them about her powers. Claire insisted, as was the truth, that it had never occurred to her that everyone didn't hear each other's thoughts. They weren't convinced. Eventually they began to avoid her, soon dropping the acquaintance altogether.

Teachers became aware of the situation and she was called into the principle's office. At this point Claire had become mute so she could only sit in silence while the graying matriarch talked at her. She was told she was an empath, and it was explained to her what that generally entailed. But it was her fellow students that had given her her real education.

There she learned that she was strange, she learnt to be silent, and it was Lisette who taught her the true name for a person like her: phénomène. Freak.

Buoyed by such reflections she eventually made it back to the lab.

Severus was somewhere out about the school; she listened for him but either he was keeping quiet or she was too weak to distinguish his voice from the others. She lowered herself to the window seat, curling up and pressing the flats of her hands to either ear, not that it did much good. She tried to ignore the gossip about her. A few occupied themselves in discussing the dour new Herboligical Studies professor. She caught odd snatches of their conversations.

'He's so grim looking- doesn't he ever smile?'

'Rather a greasy chap, wouldn't fancy meeting him in a dark alley.'

'Guess no one ever taught him a recipe for shampoo.'

She scowled. The fools. Snape was worth at least ten of each of them.

Wait, Snape? Was that his name? She reflected for a moment. Yes, she was sure it was. Severus Snape, to be exact. Hadn't she heard something about him? He was English, and there'd been a great war in England this May; it'd been all over the papers. Was it something about that? She tried to summon the article but her usually prodigious memory failed her.

Sighing she gave up the effort, to exhausted to care one way or the other. She really must get some sleep. Mme Blanche had prescribed Draught of Living Death. She hated taking it- it was unnerving to think that for the next ten hours she was completely helpless- but it was the only way she would make it through the night in peace.

She beckoned to the three ingredients she knew so well; asphodel in wormwood, valerian root and sopophorous beans. The drawers shook but try as she might they wouldn't open. She stamped her foot in impotent rage. Would nothing go as it ought tonight?

She felt a presence at the door, turning she saw Severus in all his brooding glory. His face was as stony as ever but on the inside he was laughing. So he'd seen her childish little outburst.

"It's not funny," she muttered, dignity stung.

"I never said it was."

His tone was dry.

"May I ask just what it is you are attempting to accomplish?"

"Mme.. Nurse instructed me to take Draught of Living Death."

There was no point in avoiding the "B", but her pride demanded the omission. She would not make herself more of an object of ridicule.

Severus had a bottle full of the draught on his bedside table, she knew that just as well as he did, but he made no mention of it. Waving her out of the way he gathered the supplies with an easy flick of his wand. There was amiable contempt in the glance he sent her way, and she almost thought he was teasing her. On reflection she didn't think he knew the meaning of the word "tease".

"Why do you add the extra stir?"

After every seventh stir he stirred once in the opposite direction. She'd watched him carefully through the entire procedure, pleased to note that he prepared the sopophorous beans in exactly the manner she'd discovered in her third year. Crushing them, that is, instead of mincing. Much more effective at extracting the juice.

"It strengthens the soporific effect."

Taking a large glass bottle full of water, he carefully added a drop of potion. He then conjured a cup of tea and added a drop of the infusion.

"It'll wear off by six tomorrow morning."

She hurriedly dressed for bed, not taking the time to wash her face or teeth. Slipping beneath the covers she drained the cup in one go. She was asleep by the time it fell from her hand to hit the floor, vanishing in a puff of smoke.

Blessed silence.


	5. Chapter 5

**Lexicon**

**Nom de guerre = Name of war (false name used when a person is engaged in battle)**

Sure enough, at six (six-oh-two, to be precise) Claire woke. She felt heavy and drugged, but, long used to the effects of Draught of Living Death, knew to be patient and lie still. After a few moments of inactivity her brain cleared. Sensing her shift in conciousness Grince came and batted gently at her nose.

"Time to get up, eh?"

He'd already been fed, the house elves always saw to that, so all she had to do was dress and go feed herself. She donned her uniform and made for the great hall, not bothering to check her reflection in the mirror. She could picture exactly how she looked without its help.

Grey dress, black robes, with the school's charter pinned to the left breast. Lovely. She wished they had more selection. She was tired of wearing black and grey day after day. To be fair, though, the cut wasn't unfortunate, at least for the girls.

While the boys wore standard school robes the girls' were darted and seamed to flow in a more flattering line, and the sleeves were slit to fall open at the top of the shoulder to hang almost to the floor. The dress was a medieval throw back-long with a full, swishing skirt, low waist and high bateau neckline.

The sleeves were long and tight and were available in three variations. One came to the knuckles with extra length bunched along the wrist and forearm, another with jet buttons up to the elbow, and the last smooth to the arm with a pointed cuff ending at the middle finger.

Adjusting said row of buttons marching up her arm she held up her chin and strode into the hall for breakfast. The anxiety and shock of last night had disappeared completely, replaced by quiet composure.

Faces looked up, a few curious thoughts came her way but she brushed them off with surprising ease. Today she just didn't care what they thought. What was the point in any of it? She bit her thumb at all of them, as the expression goes. Then her eyes sought out the familiar black shape at the teacher's daïs.

Maybe not _all_ of them.

Settling gracefully to table she took up a mug of chocolate and copy of the paper. She ought to be hungry- and knew that having skipped dinner the night before if she didn't eat something now she would be starving by lunch- but she was too excited to manage anything but a little toast. This was the first year in a long time that she didn't dread the first day of classes.

Another surreptitious glance at the professors. In all fact she was looking forward to it. She couldn't wait to see how Professor Prince, nie Snape, would behave.

Then the post came and a long, chatty letter from her former professor with it.

Severus observed from beneath his lids as she read the missive. She was smiling. He watched as she refolded the paper, tucking it away in some hidden pocket. He noticed that hair was caught up in a net. Jet beads glittered when she moved her head.

She was in much better composure than the previous evening. Last night he'd been taken aback to see the state her nerves were in. She was always so serene, moving through his offices in easy silence performing her duties with efficiency and grace. Even _he_ felt calm in her presence.

Surprisingly she'd managed to make it through the week without irritating him. That was no small feat. It had denied him a reason for dismissing her as his assistant. He could just ask her to leave- she wouldn't press for a reason- but he didn't want to.

He needed the help and.. he liked her.

From the first night she'd reminded him of himself. She was so earnest, putting all of her into what she did. He'd been that way once, hadn't he?

In a few minutes they would be dismissed for class and he would have a chance to see how she carried herself with the other students. She'd told him that she hadn't attended regular potion class meetings for years but he wouldn't indulge the habit. Life wasn't fair. You got stuck with people who were beneath you and had to adjust accordingly. The sooner she learnt that the better.

There, that was the bell. He rose from table and strode out of the room without a second glance. Even after seventeen years of teaching other people's snot nosed brats, working for Voldemort most of the time, the upper classmen still had the power to make him uneasy.

He hated himself for the weakness but hated them more. Not for the first time he asked himself why even bother with the whole thing, but upon entering the classroom and seeing a familiar face bent over her book he remembered. Every so often there was a look students would get; it started with understanding, changed to excitement and then to admiration and gratitude to him. Paltry though it was, it was one of the very few ways in which he ever got recognition for his advanced talents and he would not willingly go without.

After all, he was only human.

"Good morning. I am Professor Prince."

Only Claire was able to hear the split-second's hesitation before the nom de guerre. He'd cast a polyglot spell on himself so his words were spoken simultaneously in French and English.

A careless flick of his wand sent instructions to the black board.

"For the next two months we will be learning to make polyjuice potion. Who here can tell me what the purpose of this brew is?"

His eyes scanned the classroom, seemingly pleased at the lack of responses.

"No one? What a delightfully mediocre collection of dunder heads."

Claire's lip twitched in a smile. Her expectations had been fully met.

"Is there something you find funny, Mademoiselle Dowlatshahi? Please, do share. Your counterparts are being incredibly dull."

She was tempted, but not quite suicidal enough to succumb to it.

"No sir."

"Well then perhaps you would like to inform us of the properties of polyjuice potion?"

"P-polyjuice puh-p-p-" she paused to clear her throat. "P-potion enables the taker to transform into a likeness of another."

"...Go on."

"It is relatively simple to concoct- though it takes at least a month it's mostly just upkeep. It starts with ..b-brewing twelve lacewing flies for twenty-one days and concludes with the addition of 'Extract of The-Transifigured-B-Being-to-Buh-B-Be'. This usually takes the form of a hair."

"Dependent or independent of the lunar cycle?"

"Ingredient dependent; b-brewing incidentally dependent."

"Explain."

"The fluxweed needs gathered under the full moon along with the powdered b-bicorn; though actually making it does not depend on the moon since the ingredients must b-be added and gathered at certain times you must take its cycle into account at the start."

"Exactly. The next full moon will be the fifth of next month- by starting Monday with the lacewings we should be well on our way. Now, get out your parchment and take notes."

He went on to give a general overview of the potion. For homework they had to write two parchments on its historical uses, due Wednesday.

The lengthy assignment and insults had their desired effect. His students officially hated him.

Mission accomplished.


End file.
